Lincicome: Is there any reason to tune into Wimbledon?
A moment of silence for Wimbledon, the late tennis tournament, of slim interest now to America, gone the way of the Tour de France and Tiger-less golf, empty of intrigue and icons, nonetheless mucking on as is its habit.
Oh, I suppose it is still a big deal down in old SW19, the place Bud Collins used to call "The Big Dubya," but hereabouts we need spell-check and GPS to follow along.
The winner might be someone we have heard of, probably Novak Djokovic, the Serb, going for five singles titles in a row. I'll try to curb my enthusiasm.
Serena Williams had kept my curiosity during those long summers of shared disinterest, but she is gone now, leaving the stage to her sister Venus, who was there first and, now 43, needed a wild card entry this year.
Sorry to be so provincial but that's the way it is with international sports. You root for the flag and Old Glory has found other bearers, notably in women's soccer and snowboarding.
What's left is the place itself, and it is a bucket list destination, like Augusta or the Rose Bowl, too steeped in its own self-importance to change much, clinging to the past like an old robe. If it no longer has John McEnroe, except as a nag, or Andre Agassi against Pete Sampras or Chris Evert against Martina Navratilova, it hardly notices.
It has Carlos Alcaraz and Roberto Bautista and Lorenzo Musetti and Iga Swiatek, which could, let's be fair, also be the starting infield for the Texas Rangers.
It took me a while to figure out exactly what a fortnight is, except, as an American friend explained, "Think of it as three starts by a Cubs' pitcher." At the time, the math was impossible, there not being a reliable Cub starter. Come to think of it, little has changed.
Wimbledon has tolerated Americans mostly, loving the rewards but suspicious of the accent. I recall taking a taxi to the place from my digs in Knightsbridge, telling the driver to take me to Wimble-ton. That's the American pronunciation
"What's that, guv?" the cabbie asked.
I said it again, flat, confident, clear.
"Wimple-ton? Where's that, Coffee-fornia?" He laughed, not cruelly but with too much smugness. I did not leave a tip.
The proper name for Wimbledon is the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club. It has only 375 members who pay 10 pounds a year to belong. Money is not the price of admission. Birthright is. Those 10 pounds wouldn't buy a Centre Court seat, if one could be had, or if they knew how to spell "Center.
Wimbledon loves being what it is. I saved this from a column in the Observer which pointed outthat the roots of the championship, as well as the actual lawns, predate the grandfathers of the ingrates who whine for synthetic familiarity. "It is a shame the brave blades are worn down by some of the smelliest feet in sport," he wrote, "but they remain a proud platform for the great event."
Smelliest feet? I have to bow to his research.
The recurring question is whether Wimbledon is obsolete; that is, whether the most important tennis tournament in the world should be played on such an undependable and one-shot surface.
In the words of one of the club chairmen, "One of the skills we've got is that we're fuddy duddy; once people think we're dynamic that's when we'll have problems."
Wimbledon is about almost anything but tennis, including mostly gossip, serious stuffiness and, most prominently, strawberries. There is no Wimbledon without strawberries. And cream. Or, reluctantly, even yogurt. As John Lennon assured us, there are strawberry fields forever.
Tennis is not one of the things Britons do well, tennis and skiing, but no one thinks of holding the World Cup downhill in a London suburb.
The fact is, although it is played on grass, a surface nobody else uses, in a country where few can or will bother to play the game, and flatters a very limited kind of player (big serve, quick volley), Wimbledon tennis defines the sport, Americans or not.
Hold on. I think I've just talked myself into watching it again. Old habits, I guess.